


tie the rope

by terminally



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminally/pseuds/terminally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>even without costumes and vigilantes, nygma and crane still can't stay on the up and up. they do end up sort-of dating, though, so at least there's that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tie the rope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gokaisilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gokaisilver/gifts).



> this is basically a "what if" scenario where neither crane nor nygma joined the illustrious rogue's gallery, and were instead just normal(ish) dudes with issues that make some questionable choices. like accidentally joining the mafia or something.

Your name is Edward Nashton. Was, anyway. A few years back, you decided a change was in order, so you used your resources, few as they were at the time, and you made a change. It started with a fire. You're fairly certain it'll end that way, too.

\--

You bought a box of matches once; 300 count, extra thick according to the packaging. You didn't need them, didn't have a use for them at all, but they seemed right at the time. You let them sit, untouched, on top of your refrigerator for so long you nearly forgot they were there. You remembered, though, when you let the door slam closed a little too hard one day, sending the matchbox tumbling down and leaving a smattering of sticks across the grimy tiles of your kitchen floor. Ever so diligently, you picked them up--one by one; neatly arranging them back in the box. You couldn't help but think, then, of how silly it was to have something you'd never use just lying around. So you used them. Lit each one, burned off the perchlorate tops before shaking them out and setting them in a neat pile on your kitchen table. You were down to three when it struck you as odd--what a waste of wood those described extra thick sticks were. You lit two more and set them in the pile. The last one, lucky number three hundred, stayed between your fingertips until you'd successfully caught the whole pile in a neat little blaze. You took it in, the orange flames licking higher, the bitter tinge of burning varnish as it spread across your kitchen table. And then you left. Left the fire in your kitchen. You got your keys, locked up, and went to buy another box of matches.

\--

You suppose, looking back on it, that that was the moment you left Edward Nashton behind, too. A casualty to whim, to your own mind that you never could completely grasp and no one else could hope to fathom. You'd known, you'd always known, that there was something different in you, even when you'd tucked it away into an ordinary little box.

\--

Days later, you arrived in Gotham, the city that refused to sleep, even when exhaustion was set so deep it was a wonder anything was left of it to stand. It was marvelous, in a way, beautiful in the stark dichotomy between the elite and the throwaways. Here, ordinary was a far-flung dream that you were happy to see crushed under designer heel and washed down into squalid gutters. You could see yourself thriving, if you pushed enough, etched out a space to squeeze into.

So you set up shop--Edward Nygma, Private Detective. No job too big, though many were obviously too small. People lacked scope, you found, lacked vision. Your legal clientele, anyway. You made your real money in consulting, off the books work that you might call seedy if you were being dismissive, research if you were being abstruse, and aiding and abetting if you were being honest. Fortunately for you, honesty was a dying art form. Either way, you built yourself a reputation. Even better, you built a fortune. Nothing too grand, but enough that you could live comfortably and well above the the means your tax filings might suggest. 

The only trouble was that you often found yourself incredibly bored. You'd never had that problem before, back when you hadn't completely opened the box that locked up your brain. Puzzles you could solve, that wasn't a problem, had never been a problem. It was the _lack_ that left you floundering. Now that you had let yourself be, well, fully yourself, you had to keep your mind occupied. When you didn't, your thoughts raced in circles, your skin crawled, and the vacantness left you creeping closer and closer towards mad. And you certainly weren't that, just...eccentric.

\--

Perhaps you'd miscalculated. Which was stunning, because you didn't. You were always precise, and when you weren't, you already had a plan set to swiftly place you back on track. You planned, you supervised, you never actually got your own hands dirty. You'd thought, perhaps, that you might try being more proactive. Anything to mitigate the dullness of the every day. A thought which was most likely going to be your downfall.

You found the sight of blood distasteful on the best of days, but splattered across your pristine leather shoes... Death was a messy business, and even though you couldn't help but feel a bit squeamish, your inner showman kept you going on as if you were already a seasoned professional. That was, most likely, the real mistake. Now you'd brought on expectations and the company you kept wasn't exactly the sort took take no for an answer.

So you found yourself in the same situation again. And again. And again. To be honest, you'd realized that being bored was probably the lesser of two evils. But you had an image, a compulsion, and even if that led you on to terrible things that you were, most certainly, not going to enjoy... You had notoriety, which was why you'd come here in the first place. You might have reduced yourself to the level of a common criminal to do it, but things deviated from the plan sometimes. That's what kept you uncommon, you were always two steps ahead. 

\--

When you first met him, it felt a little like dying . You think. You've never died, obviously, but you imagine it's a similar experience. It was strange and fascinating, finding someone like you and so unlike you at the same time. Someone brilliant and just as much a victim of their own mind as you were. He was detached with single-minded obsession, infuriating really. Not that you fully understood the breadth of all that at the time, but you saw something that was puzzling and that was it. You were doomed before you could even stop yourself.

It started with a job. You needed a chemist. Well, not _you_ , a client, an employer needed one. Someone loose of morals and fond of funding, and you found one. It was surprisingly easy, really. So much so that it was a wonder you'd even needed to look at all. He worked for the university, a professor, someone meant to shape young minds. Psychology was where the bulk of his formal training had been placed, but chemistry was a hobby that he practiced with such proficiency you could hardly tell the difference.

Every word he said was measured, calculated; like you were a specimen for study and it was his priority to completely unravel your psyche in a single conversation. He was clinical and unnerving, without even the common decency to make it seem like you were worth the effort of his conversation. 

Still, you made an offer and he accepted, asking only for research funds, a pittance of a salary, and access to test subjects. Human, live if he could have a preference. And because you'd already found that liquid assets had more value than a human life, you agreed.

\--

You learned very quickly that he couldn't be trusted with common people. He had a way of saying things, knowing things, that left most grown men breaking down in existential crises. So you became a liaison. You didn't particularly like the arrangement, but it was definitely better than prior endeavors. And anyway, you'd become a yes man, you had set a precedent for following orders. 

Certainly it had nothing to do with actually getting to know him, getting to understand him.

Don't be absurd.

\--

The thing about dying was that no two people made the same face. Some were accepting, some were smug, some were confused, surprised, terrified, pleading. But every time it was unique. You asked him why that was, once. It was the most you'd ever heard him speak at one time. There were stages of death, he'd said. He'd explained them all, how someone that knows they're dying goes through them and how some refuse to. How those that die suddenly simply don't have the time to hit them all. It's much more complex than a simple matter of the brain shutting off, and you can't help but to question details and put forth scenarios for him to break down. Fear, you come to learn, really gets him going, spiraling into tangents and theories.

You soak in every word, almost charmed at his complete disregard for modern social theory in place of his own conclusions; as if his word was gospel and everyone else was too pedestrian to see it. You can understand that, identify with it. But when he starts in on you, attempting to dissect and learn what makes you tick, that's when you find other things suddenly needing your attention.

\--

You think, precisely twice, that you've got him figured. After that, you stop. You realize that for as complex as he seems, he's incredibly simple; but even that simplicity is deceptive. Or he is. You can't be sure. He can say anything with such flippancy, you imagine he could say whatever he wanted and you'd never know what was fabrication.

The thing you do know, with no room for doubt, is that simple human interaction is completely beyond him. He cannot parse small talk, not without trying to tear every word to shreds for intent and hidden meaning. Everything must have a reason. Not to say he can't participate in idle banter, which is really just indulging you with clipped responses and disinterest until it becomes too much and he either ignores you outright or tries to turn things around on you. You make it a point to never give a straight answer, if only for the sake of the look he gets. He'll stop what he's doing and stare at you; through you, really. You think he's trying to gauge you, find a tell that will explain everything your talking in circles doesn't. And then he'll go back to whatever had occupied his attention previously. You can't be sure if he ever finds what he's looking for. You can't even be certain he finds anything at all.

You know what you don't want him to find, though. Sometimes, you think he might have already. He hasn't brought it up, and you aren't sure how you feel about that. It's disappointing in a way. Maybe he isn't as sharp as he thinks he is, or maybe you're just better. He's probably humoring you, so you can at least feel petulant.

\--

He was in the middle of a long-winded explanation of his newest concoction, why it was better than what had been ordered, how it worked, the effects, the after effects, the ins and outs and everything you knew you needed to know yet couldn't bring yourself to focus on. So you interrupted him, right in the middle of a word you simply asked him to dinner. It was an impulse, and you found those to be remarkable at shutting him up. If even _you_ couldn't say why you'd said something, what hope could he have of deciphering it? He looked at you briefly, eyes narrowed and nose slightly wrinkled, like you'd said the most distasteful thing in the world. Then he continued on his previous dialogue, finishing what needed to be said. You felt slightly deflated. When the discussion was over and you went to leave, though, he surprised you. He named a restaurant and a time, and then proceeded to act like you didn't exist.

So you did what you usually do--you planned. What to wear, when to arrive, where to go after. You failed, however, to take into account for just how disagreeable he was through the whole affair. Jonathan Crane out of a laboratory was still Jonathan Crane, albeit wearing an ill-fitting dinner jacket. You supposed you should have expected that, really. He was barely more than skin and bones, everything he owned was well-worn and there was never any thought or care to keeping a professional appearance. And while he did have impeccable table manners, he ate like he was performing an autopsy. Very precise, yet more like he was studying the ingredients than trying to have a meal. Most of it was simply pushed around his plate and left abandoned.

He seemed intent to avoid conversation altogether, and you began to wonder why he even bothered to come at all. When you attempted to carry out your plans for the rest of the evening, he declined on the grounds of getting back to work. You half-expected an "it's not you, it's me" speech, but he at least spared you that. Honestly, you weren't sure what to make of it, especially when the next time you saw him, he informed you that he apparently had a lovely time.

Of course, he immediately followed that up by belittling you, but it was something.

\--

You asked again the next week. And the week after that, and the one after that, and once more for good measure. Each time went the same as the first, though he gradually became more willing to actually speak to you. That was the only real difference. Then you decided to stop, as an experiment of sorts. On your usual day, you didn't mention anything at all about meeting and took your leave when business was finished. The next time you dropped by, he asked you. Very. Interesting.

\--

It took some time to piece together, but after a few months you came to a realization. Really, you'd already known; after all, you'd worked to keep it covered up when it was just a small inkling. You'd originally pegged it as fascination, but, for all your genius, sometimes you were an idiot. You had an active, avid _interest_.

The next time you met for dinner, you said as much. He stopped his usual ministrations of neatly segregating his dinner to look at you, one brow quirked in the closest approximation of surprise you'd ever seen on his face. Then he informed you that he had already figured that from the outset, why on Earth do you think he'd agreed?

\--

You made a point, after that, to increase the number of times you met per week. On occasion, he'd decline, but on the whole he seemed amenable enough about the change. Should you start calling them dates? You'd need to sort that out at some point.

The thing was, it had been established that you were interested, and since he knew and agreed, that would lead you to believe that he was, too. Or he's fucking with you. You can't tell. He's still indifferent at best, even with his small bouts of loquaciousness. You decide that, obviously, you have to find out. You can't just ask, you'd never get a straight answer. So you invite him to your apartment. He accepts like he'd known already, and you can't even find it strange anymore.

You don't really have a plan, but you wait it out until it seems like he's ready to excuse himself for the evening. You've gotten better at gauging that, almost like a science. Without preamble or warning, you lean in and kiss him. He lets you, which is more than you'd expected. You hadn't stepped foot in one since you were a teenager, but you can't help but think that he smells like a church lobby. A bit chemical clean with an underlying, ground-in spice built up over years that couldn't be completely covered up. Also a little like nickels and burnt down matches, that's what really sold it for you. Every time you breathed him in was like a candlelight vigil, a liturgy just for you. Maybe that was strange, you're more than sure it is--which is why you'll never do more than think it--but you're okay enough with it that, for once, you decide not to over-think things.

\--

It’s not a perfect match, probably not even a good one. You’ll take it, though. It’s different, and you like that. You’re fairly certain that one day he’ll kill you, he seems like the type, but you’re okay with that, too. Something to keep you on your toes. You can’t be bored if your mind is always at work, and you don’t cut corners when it comes to self-preservation.


End file.
